


Yesterday's Newspapers

by crazyginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sheriarty fluff makes life worth living, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyginger/pseuds/crazyginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Sherlock like to keep track of their work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yesterday's Newspapers

**Author's Note:**

> An alternative title to this could be: "It's Finals Week, Why am I Writing Fanfiction?"

 

> SWINDON, ENGLAND - The Wroughton Library and Archives welcomed the return of several rare books late yesterday afternoon.
> 
> "We are very happy to announce that our books have come home," said Anita Sworr, collections manager at the library.
> 
> The seven books, primarily scientific volumes written between the 15th and 17th centuries, had been missing since March 13th. Details of the books' whereabouts have yet to be released.
> 
> "We know they remained within the country," said Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard at a press conference. "What we aren't sure about, however, is the motive behind the theft."
> 
> Scotland Yard officials stated that no arrests have been made at this time.
> 
> "There is an ongoing investigation into the identity of the perpetrator," Lestrade said. "We will find whoever did this."
> 
> Lestrade later confirmed that amateur detective-turned-internet sensation Sherlock Holmes is involved in the case. Holmes was not available for comment.
> 
> Among the returned books were original works by Ptolemy, Copernicus, Galileo and Newton. Missing works included mathematical and astronomical treatises, as well as early essays and experimentations in physics. The volumes were found in an abandoned...

 

"Here's another one about you and I, see?"

Jim's voice breaks the peaceful quiet. They're holed up in one of his various flats in the city, the one that Jim likes the best. It's small but comfortable, filled with books and odd knickknacks and monthly subscriptions to magazines. It looks _lived-in_.

Sherlock is seated across the table from him, eyes glued to a microscope, hands braced against the device's delicate knobs and buttons. His eyes flick upwards at the sound of Jim's voice before turning back to his work. He's in one of his concentrated trances: he hasn't moved for what seems like an hour. Jim likes to think that he'd make a good statue sometimes.

Jim taps the newspaper with an insistent fingertip. "You made yourself unavailable to comment again, I see."

"Mm."

"Anyone would think that you didn't appreciate my work," Jim says, "by the way you never want to talk about it." He pretends to pout, even though he knows Sherlock isn't looking.

"Nobody else knows you're involved."

"I do."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches, a half-concealed smile. "I hardly doubt that the readership of that paper would be able to fathom my appreciation for your work," he says after a slight pause.

Jim grins crookedly. "I like it when you insult the intellect of the common folk, my dear."

Sherlock doesn't reply, choosing instead to adjust the sample on the viewing platform.

"That wouldn't be a sample of dust from the cover of _Almagest_ , would it?" Jim asks, eyes widening.

Sherlock makes a small sound of agreement. "The pollen is quite telling."

"Oh, _clever_."

They settle back into an easy silence. The sound of raindrops patters against the windowpanes and fills the air with a gentle hum. Jim turns his attention back to the newspaper and quickly finishes the rest of the article. He takes a minute to marvel at the reporter's complete and utter ignorance: how these people can gather all the information related to a case, conduct interviews, compose a report, and yet _not_ see the clear answer is beyond him.

He sets the paper down and scans the table. It's covered in clutter - one of Sherlock's influences on the flat, no doubt - and Jim is really quite amazed at just how much stuff can fit onto the small surface. His eyes comb through the collection of assorted objects (a few broken pens, scraps of paper with scribbled notes, an old book on botany, a dirty petri dish) until he finds a pair of scissors.

"Shall I?" Jim asks, reaching for the scissors.

Sherlock detaches himself from the microscope after a moment and nods. He fixes Jim in his sharp, scientific gaze and examines him like a rare specimen as he grabs the scissors and begins to cut out the article from the paper. Sherlock watches the corners of Jim's eyes crinkle, memorizes the deft movements of his fingers and the shape of his knuckles as he holds the scissors. These hands have created bombs and wrecked major banks and government institutions, yet they look so at home doing such an ordinary task: soft, small, perhaps even delicate. Sherlock is sometimes still surprised at the juxtaposition that is Jim Moriarty.

Jim cuts with precision, and after a few snips the small rectangle of flimsy paper flutters to the tabletop. Sherlock snatches it up as Jim folds the mangled newspaper and sets the scissors aside.

"You've got yourself such a nice reputation," Jim says as Sherlock scans the article. "Amateur detective, internet sensation. I'm almost _envious_."

Sherlock smirks and rises from his chair, the movement fluid despite the slight stiffness of his legs. Jim leans into his chair and throws an arm across its back, eyes following Sherlock as he crosses the room in a few strides to a spot between the windows.

Despite the rain, it's still fairly light out. The watery, cloudy brightness pools around Sherlock and highlights the curls of his hair, smattering him in shades of light and dark. The shadows emphasize the curve of his neck and jaw as he pins the newspaper clipping to a small pinboard attached to the wall.

It started as a way to keep score, really. When an article would come out about one of Sherlock's cases that Jim had just happened to be involved in, Jim would cut it out and save it, to memorialize another job well done; he liked to have tangible evidence of his work, besides payments and blown-up buildings. Eventually, Sherlock had begun to cut them out as well (perhaps for the same reason, Jim thought). Over time the clippings accumulated like snowdrifts on their work table, with new articles being added on a surprisingly regular basis. When they'd started to spill out onto other surfaces of the flat, Jim finally caved and bought a pinboard.

Jim had brought it to the flat one day and didn't say anything about it. He'd simply hung it on the wall and let Sherlock make his deductions.

It didn't take long for the board to fill: Jim had covered nearly half of it with articles in no time. Sherlock caught on quickly, and soon he began to put up articles that he'd find in newspapers as well. Sherlock was hardly mentioned in any of the articles – the credit went mostly to Scotland Yard – but it didn’t matter. They knew the real stories behind the articles’ facades. They put up articles about old cases, new cases, and cases still under investigation, anything that involved their work. It was a physical representation of their connection, a map of all the moves they had made in this game of theirs. Adding to the board became a ritual, a way of tracking their progress toward an unknown yet inevitable goal.

Sherlock finishes hanging the newest article on the board and takes a step back. His eyes land on the picture of him in that ridiculous ear-hat, the prop that's somehow become an icon irreversibly connected to Sherlock. Jim had put up with a cheeky smile a few weeks back; Sherlock doesn't ask how or why he has a copy of that picture (he knows why: asking would be gloating). He's tried to take it down - multiple times - but to no avail. Jim will intercept, grab the photo and either put it back up or hide it for a few days before pinning it to the board again. It's non-negotiable.

"You know," Jim says, walking to join Sherlock at the wall, "I've got a great addition to this coming up soon."

Sherlock frowns and turns to face Jim. "I should hope it will be better than the stolen books," he says. "A _child_ could solve this case. Scotland Yard, however, is a different story."

Jim laughs and snakes an arm around Sherlock's waist. " _That_ case? That's just a little exercise, something to keep you busy while I organize bigger and better things," he says. "I know what it's like to be _bored_ , after all, and we can't have that."

Boredom. Of course Jim would know.

Sherlock isn't quite used to these moments of companionship and understanding yet. He's getting there, of course, but he's still amazed that he's not the only one, that there's somebody else on this planet who struggles with the same burden of boredom but has found a way to break through. He'd thought for so long that he was a singularity, an outlier designed to fly above the others but tethered to the earth by the realization of his own loneliness. But then in waltzed Jim Moriarty, and Sherlock's entire world had been completely upended.

He doesn't say any of this. That would be too... he doesn't know the right word, not for this situation. Revealing? Or, god forbid, _sentimental?_

Instead, he opts for something simpler, less dangerous.

"We'll have to get another board," he says.

And they do.


End file.
